The Cold Tile Room

My name is Daniel, and I’m from Manchester, but this happened during a week-long getaway to the coastal town of Playa del Secreto, not far from Cancun. I’d booked a small, family-run hotel called Casa de la Luna, which had a beautiful courtyard and a pool that glittered like turquoise. The heat was oppressive, a wet blanket that clung to you the moment you stepped outside, so the hotel’s air-conditioned lobby was a welcome relief. But down a narrow staircase near the back of the lobby, there was a door that led to a basement. I say ‘basement’, but it was more of a half-sunken passage that led to a single toilet. The first time I used it, I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature. It was a cold that seeped into your bones, and the air was thick with a sickly sweet smell, like rotting fruit mixed with bleach. The door would rattle on its own, and I’d hear whispers, soft and urgent, just at the edge of my hearing. I tried to convince myself it was the pipes, the wind, anything. But the feeling of being watched, of not being safe, was overwhelming. I started using the restaurant’s toilet instead, which was on the ground floor and always spotless. But it was worse. The moment I closed the door, a wave of dread washed over me, so heavy I could barely breathe. It felt like something was pressing down on my shoulders, trying to push me to my knees. One afternoon, after a particularly bad swimming session, I went in there to wash my hands. The mirror was clean, the tiles were spotless, but my reflection seemed wrong. There was a faint smear of something dark on the glass, like a handprint, and when I reached out to wipe it, it was on my side of the mirror. I pulled my hand back, and the print vanished. That’s when I heard the scratching. It was coming from inside the walls, slow and deliberate, like fingernails tracing a pattern. I got out of there as fast as I could. I went to the front desk and asked the clerk, a young man named Carlos, if there was any history to the hotel. He got a strange look in his eyes and lowered his voice. ‘You feel it, too,’ he said, not a question. He told me that this place was built over an old cistern that had been part of a hacienda. According to local legend, a girl had drowned in it many years ago, and her spirit was restless. ‘She doesn’t like people using her bathroom,’ he said, with a half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes. That night, I couldn’t sleep. I lay in my room, listening to the hum of the air conditioner, when I heard a sound that made my blood run cold. It was the sound of water dripping, steady and rhythmic, coming from the bathroom down the hall. I got up and crept to my door. The hallway was dark, and there was a pool of water spreading from under the bathroom door. I pushed it open, and the room was empty, but the air was freezing. The mirror was fogged, and someone had written something in the condensation. But when I looked closer, I saw it wasn’t writing. It was a child’s drawing of a girl with long hair, and she was standing at the edge of a well. I backed out, my heart pounding. I didn’t use that bathroom again, but from then on, I felt her. Everywhere. In the courtyard, in the restaurant, in my room. I’d catch glimpses of a small shadow in my peripheral vision, and sometimes I’d hear a faint giggle. On my last night, I woke up to find the sheets pulled off my body, and the window was open. The curtains were billowing, and there was a chill in the air. I looked at the window and saw a small handprint on the glass, like a child’s hand, but the window was three floors up. I couldn’t sleep after that. I sat in a chair until dawn, watching the handprint slowly fade. When I checked out, I asked Carlos if the girl had a name. He said her name was Lucia, and she had been nine years old. ‘She’s not malicious,’ he said, ‘but she’s lonely. She wants someone to play with.’ That was the reason I started researching Mexican spirits. I never found anything about Lucia, but I found stories of other places where children’s laughter echoed through empty rooms. And sometimes, late at night, I still think I feel a cold hand on my shoulder, and I hear a little girl’s voice whispering, ‘Will you stay?’